


Occasum (Setting Sun)

by StackerPentecost



Series: Solas (Light) [3]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Adopted Children, Babies, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 13:16:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19013662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StackerPentecost/pseuds/StackerPentecost
Summary: The Mute and Brother Diarmuid have settled into their new life with each other, but their little family is about to get a bit bigger.





	Occasum (Setting Sun)

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the translations follow the words in Irish, though their accuracy is questionable. All errors are mine.

She had dark tufts of curly hair and rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes the color of the sky on a clear day. She cooed and babbled and cried and did everything babies are supposed to do. Yet, he was a grown man, a man who had seen plenty in his life and she was by far the most terrifying thing he’d ever encountered. 

Diarmuid loved her, he could see it in the other man’s eyes. He doted on her, took her everywhere in a little pouch he’d fashioned just for that purpose. She was rarely out of his sight. 

He still couldn’t believe how she’d come to be with them, except for the fact that he trusted Diarmuid like nothing else on this earth and knew that he would not lie about such a thing and was too kind-hearted to do so much as take a child from someone. 

The mother had died, he hadn’t seen it himself but the man that called himself the local healer had said so and Diarmuid judged this to be true. The ex monk had come into his shop looking for medicinal supplies and had somehow ended up coming out with a baby. The man had begged him to take her, said he was too old and infirm to look after someone so young. Diarmuid, being the person that he was, had been unable to say no. 

So, instead of coming back to their home, which included a newly built house and several animal pens and a garden, with the things he needed, he came back home with a child. 

The Mute’s stormy gaze and quick retreat had not been the reaction he’d been hoping for from his partner. 

He didn’t understand. He was so young still, and despite his wisdom, he was still naive in so many ways. He couldn’t understand what it was like to watch his wife struggle, to watch her perish, to have to bury both her and the child they both had so longed to have. How it had led him down such a dark path, one of war and depravity and bloodshed, the only shining light he had in that hour of his life cut down like everything else. His silence was all that had followed. 

If she had lived, if he had done something, anything differently, then perhaps things would be vastly changed from what they were now. 

The Mute paused in his work, bent over a piece of wood that needed chopping. He took in several deep breaths, feeling the cool air burn his lungs in that almost pleasant sort of way. It would be winter soon and they needed to be prepared, so he spent most everyday outside, making sure everything was in order. 

If nothing else, at least it kept him busy and away from the child. 

Diarmuid said she hadn’t had a name. The healer hadn’t seen it fit to give her one despite how long he’d watched over her, so the young man had taken to calling her Rós, like the color in her cheeks. 

Their child, also a little girl, had been Aileen. They had liked it because it was a name fit for a princess. 

He shook his head, refusing to get pulled back into his memories. He spent so much time fighting them and giving in now would just make things worse. 

He could see that he was hurting Diarmuid with his distance. At first, the other man had given him his space but that had been weeks ago. Now everyday, that distance seemed to strain the bond between them and the Mute couldn’t help feeling guilty, for it was him who refused to break the stalemate. 

He couldn’t help it, not when looking at her caused him so much pain. It was like a dagger in the ribs every single time. Just hearing her at night kept him awake, knowing that if he fell asleep, exactly what dreams would come to haunt him, just like they did during the waking hours of the day. 

He was exhausted, but could not make himself relent. He could not deal with that part of his past, did not know how. It had been so deeply buried for so long, now that it was unearthed, it was as if he was living with a ghost that never left his side, always there to torment him when he least expected it. 

He started a bit when the door to the house opened and his partner stepped out, ever carrying the sling that he used to keep the baby close and bundled up against the chill in the autumn air. The Mute quickly went back to his work. 

Diarmuid approached slowly, like he was coming upon an injured animal that might try to bolt and hurt itself even more in the process. He came close, but stayed far enough away that any flying wood or an errant swing of the ax would not harm him or Rós. 

For a long moment, he watched the other man work, watched his muscles tense and relax as he swung and split the wood into manageable pieces. When the Mute paused to catch his breath, Diarmuid ventured a step closer. He noticed how the other man’s whole body was rigid, on edge most likely from the little girl cradled against his chest. Still, he didn’t back away. 

_ “Le do thoil…” Please.  _ “I hate this. I hate seeing you in pain. I hate never being near you. You won’t come near me or the child during the day. At night, you lay as far from me as you can get. You do not touch me or kiss me, you barely look at me. It hurts so much that I feel as though I’m missing half of my own body.” 

The Mute’s shoulders twitched and he ducked his head, eyes on the ground. Every word hurt almost even more than the little girl’s presence dredging up old memories ever could. Guilt and shame hung over him like a cloud and he allowed it to, for it was his fault and only his fault and he deserved to feel the weight of it. 

The Mute dropped the axe and settled roughly on the ground, running a shaky hand through his hair. Diarmuid came closer, settling near him, but he dare not touch, not wanting to chance being rejected and pushed away. 

“Do...Do you not love me anymore because of this?” His voice shook as he asked this question and his chest ached as if he’d been punched. 

The Mute lifted his head, expression clearly showing his pain more than any amount of words ever could. Despite his aversion, he moved closer to the other man, reaching to take his hand and squeeze it firmly. 

It wasn’t much, it didn’t fix anything, but it was something. A simple touch that told Diarmuid he didn’t have to worry, that no matter what he did, he would never stop being loved. 

It was enough to get the younger of the two to move closer, until he was nearly in the Mute’s lap. He wrapped his arms around those broad, scarred shoulders and pressed himself close, burying his face in the Mute’s neck. 

_ “Bhí faitíos orm go raibh tú caillte agat.” I feared I’d lost you.  _

His skin crawled, not because of Diarmuid, never because of him, but because of the little baby held so close. He hated it, hated that something so small, so utterly innocent, triggered in him such a reaction. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t ask to be brought into their lives. She had never done anything to wrong him. This was him, all him. 

Nevertheless, he didn’t pull away, carefully slipping his arms around the smaller man. 

_ “Ná.” Never.  _

The reply was short, ground out from disused vocal cords and barely loud enough to be interpreted as anything but a grunt but Diarmuid heard it all the same. 

Diarmuid pressed a kiss to the closest patch of skin before slowly pulling away. He looked down at the baby nestled between them, smiling softly. Rós has been asleep when he’d stepped out, but had soon woken, the soft little sounds she made catching his attention. 

The Mute couldn’t look at her, no, he could barely breathe. He felt winded and his throat felt clogged, suffocating him even more. He started when gentle hands cradled his face. Concerned green eyes found his. 

“Something haunts you, doesn’t it? It isn’t her, not really. It’s something else, something she reminds you of. I see your anger, your pain, but it’s directed inward, never at her. What happened, my love? What happened that makes you feel this way?” 

He would not say it, he would not speak of it. If he did, it would bring it to life, reanimating the long dead memories that haunted him day and night. He wouldn’t be able to handle that, not when he could barely handle them now. 

But he couldn’t bare to push the man he loved away anymore. It hurt him just as much as Diarmuid to keep him at arm’s length, to not touch and hold, to deny the affection they had thrived off of for so long. 

So it appeared he had no choice. He had to explain, somehow. 

_ “Bhí teaghlach agam…” I had a family… _

Diarmuid seemed surprised to hear so much from him, but when the words finally sank in, suddenly everything made sense about the Mute’s behavior. It was the behavior of someone in grief, who couldn’t let go of what had happened and no, it was not Rós’s fault, but seeing her had triggered this reaction, reminding the Mute of a time he would’ve rather forgotten. 

Diarmuid glanced up at the sky before standing and offering his hand to the other man. “Let’s go inside, it’s getting late and we all need to eat. It will be more comfortable to talk as well.” 

The Mute eyed his hand a moment before taking it and getting to his feet. Diarmuid waited for him to collect the wood he had chopped before they both retreated back into their home. 

While the Mute stoked the fireplace, Diarmuid fed the baby, smiling softly as he watched little fists squish in her applesauce. He found most everything she did to be cute, even if she was making a mess. After he’d managed to get some of the food into her, he wiped her hands and her chubby cheeks and gathered her up in his arms. Eating always made her tired, so she was fast asleep before he even set her down in her crib.

When he returned to the other room, the Mute had finished the fire, though instead of getting himself something to eat, he simply watched the flames, their orange glow reflecting in his dark eyes. Diarmuid was careful with his approach, placing his hand gently on the Mute’s arm. The other jumped only a bit, turning slightly toward him. Diarmuid’s hand found his cheek, a knuckle tracing along his cheekbone. It was a small touch, but the Mute’s eyes closed as he relished it, especially after the distance that had been between them lately.

_ “Mo grá.”  My love.  _ Diarmuid’s voice had a melancholy hint to it, for he enjoyed having the other man close to him again, but he could see he was still in pain and now he finally understood why. “Do you remember how tormented I was after we came here? How I thought God had forsaken us, had forsaken me and how my faith had almost turned to poison? I told you that, did I not?”

The Mute’s eyes opened slowly before he gave a nod. He reached to cover the hand on his cheek, turning his head to press a kiss to the pale skin.

“Then you do remember that in the end, I realized that all of that, all of what we had been through, all of the pain and the suffering and the bloodshed and atrocity, all of it had been worth it in the end? Our Lord tested us and we lived through it together. That’s how I saw it and how I still see it, correct?” 

When he received another affirmative nod, he continued, “I have no right to pretend I understand the weight you carry with you after what you’ve been through. I have no right to pry or dig for more answers or to force you to explain yourself further. You had a family. That means you do not have them anymore. But what you forget is though that may be true, that you may have lost a family you once had, you have a family now. You and I, we are a family. We have been since before we arrived at this place. And being asked to take care of this child has only expanded that family. I know it pains you so much to be near her but you cannot forget her for the blessing that she is. This is Our Father giving us a second chance. He gave you to me and me to you. And now He gives you the family you lost and the child I’ve always wanted. Everyday we are together and in good health and with a roof over our heads and food in our bellies and a warm bed, that is a blessing. And now the Lord has given us a child to share all that good fortune with. We can give her a good life, I know we can. But that’s we, not just me. I need you and she needs you.” His fingers gently combed through the dark facial hair that seemed to get longer and longer everyday. “Running away from your pain will not heal it. You need to let yourself feel it, experience it, so that you may let it go. You are allowed to grieve and to mourn and to remember, but isolating yourself only makes it worse.” He embraced him the way they had so long ago on that day in the forest, resting their foreheads together so there was barely any space between them. “Promise me you will try not to run anymore? Not from me and not from your past, not from anything. We belong to each other, you and I, and it’s only right that I help you carry some of the weight the holds you down. We will shoulder this burden together.”

The Mute’s hands shook as he lifted them, bringing the smaller man in to hold him close. When this happened, Diarmuid knew they had come to an understanding, just as they always did. 

The Mute turned and buried his face in curly brown hair, inhaling deeply to keep from completely breaking down, his nose filling with the scent of his other half, a woodsy smell like river rocks and oak. It took every ounce of self control he had to not howl with the ache that throbbed so deeply in what felt like his soul itself. 

Diarmuid was right. He had spent so many years pushing it down and covering his feelings, trying to smother them, that now that they had bubbled up to the surface, they threatened to overwhelm him like a flash flood in a dry desert. But, as much as he hated it, he needed to feel this, to experience it, to do as his love had asked of him. If he did not grieve properly, he never would recover as long as he lived and who knew what would trigger him next? 

So he held on for what felt hours, shoulders shaking as he let every awful memory of what happened him wash over him like a summer rain. But instead of drowning him, it cleansed him in a way he didn’t expect. When they finally pulled apart, he didn’t feel perfect or completely okay, but he felt a bit lighter, like breathing wasn’t so difficult. And when Diarmuid smiled in that soft way of his, he even managed to smile back.

* * *

 

The distance between them had dwindled, both emotionally and physically as well, as evidenced by the Mute’s protective grip around the younger man as they slept that night. 

It was late, the waning fire casting eerie shadows across the walls as the wind occasionally whistled outside. 

The Mute woke to the sound of fussing that soon became actual crying that was well on the way to becoming a wail. Normally, the sound would’ve driven fear and pain into his heart but tonight, though it still made him uneasy, he found himself rising from the bed to approach the crib. He heard Diarmuid stirring behind him but took no notice, instead peering into the wooden bassinet that he had made himself. 

Rós whined and whimpered in that way babies did, little hands grabbing at empty air. The longer time went on, the louder and more distressed she became. 

He didn’t know what made him do it, barely knew how. But something made him reach into that crib and scoop the child into his arms, cradling the bundle close to his chest. 

Her cries quieted when she settled in his arms and it felt like a small triumph. 

“She’s hungry.” 

The Mute jolted slightly, but kept a steady hold on the baby. Diarmuid stood at his side, hair tousled and eyes glazed from sleep but awake nonetheless. 

“She’s hungry.” He repeated. “That was her hungry cry.” He turned and went into the other room. The Mute glanced down at the child before following. 

Diarmuid stoked the fire before retrieving a jar of carrots they’d recently canned to store for the winter. He turned back to find The Mute sitting in the corner on the rocking chair, another piece of furniture that was homemade. 

“I can feed her.” Diarmuid said, opening the jar. “It’s okay, I do it all the time.”

The Mute didn’t answer right away, instead looking down at Rós, who had quieted some but still wiggled and whined, clearly not happy. He found himself with the urge to do what he could to change that. Holding the baby with one hand, he motioned to the jar.

As usual, he got his point across. 

Diarmuid smiled softly despite the tiredness in his eyes. “You can feed her, if you want. I can show you how.”

It was easy enough, it turned out. Rós was a well behaved baby most of the time, almost always accepting the little spoonfuls of mush without making too much mess, though she did like sticking her chubby hand in the jar if she could reach, letting the mush coat her fingers. She found this endlessly amusing. She ate a lot too, growing like a weed because of it according to Diarmuid. 

Once he got the hang of it, the Mute kissed his love goodnight and insisted he go back to sleep. It took some prodding, but eventually Diarmuid relented and went back to rest in their bed. 

As the sun began to crest on the horizon, the Mute was back in the rocking chair, holding the dozing child in his arms. 

He had imagined he would’ve hated this. He’d been so afraid to touch her, to be near her, that it would somehow hurt him worse than he was already hurting. 

It turned out he found the baby’s presence almost comforting. She didn’t judge him for what he’d done, for his behavior toward her, for the awful things he’d done. She wasn’t afraid, seeing him didn’t scare her. She just seemed happy to be close to him, her little hand pressed against his bare chest. 

It was almost like the noise inside his head quieted just a little when he held her, when he feared the opposite would happen. 

She dozed off just like she had around dinner time, curled close to him. 

Maybe Diarmuid wasn’t so far off. 

He spent a little more time with her, rocking gently back and forth, making sure she was deeply asleep before rising and quietly moving back to the crib. Scarred hands carefully placed the baby back inside. She huffed softly but didn’t wake up, blue eyes still closed. 

When he climbed back beneath the furs on their bed, he was surprised to find Diarmuid was awake. Their eyes met and a smile came to the ex-monk’s face. 

“Not so bad, huh?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper. He leaned in and soft lips found the tip of the Mute’s nose. The Mute moved in closer and Diarmuid was only happy to slip back into his grasp. 

“Are you going to be okay?” He wondered, once they’d settled again, Diarmuid’s head resting beneath the older man’s chin. 

The answer he got was small, almost so quiet that it couldn’t be heard. But yet, somehow, it sounded firm and unwavering. 

_ “Ní ceart go leor. Sona.”  _

_ Not okay. Happy.  _

**Author's Note:**

> I'm saintaleksander on Tumblr.


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